The Rule of the Game
by macrauchenia
Summary: "For every inside tidbit you think you know about me, it's just another glimpse I have into your mind. I know you'll play the game eventually. Especially if you know the stakes." - After receiving an invitation from Pelant he is unable to refuse, Dr. Sweets is forced to take desperate measures to conceal his dealings with the psychopath from the very people he is trying to save.
1. Chapter 1

**Timeframe/Info About This Fic: **Post Season 8  
**Disclaimer:** Bones and its characters belong to their rightful owners.  
**Authors Note: **I know... I know... _Another_ full length story. Revolving around Sweets, to boot. I don't think you guys believed me when I said I was going to replenish this site's unforgivable lack of Baby Duck fics.  
Anyway, I've waited to post this for a while, but I can't wait any longer. Unlike my other full length stories, I actually know where I'm going with this xD The only problem is I need to kick my sorry butt into inspiration mode and actually write to the end. Erp.

* * *

"So you're saying he just packed up and _disappeared? _Angela was able to get you a brief trance on his location and you _missed it?_" Ever since their last encounter with Pelant, Booth had become increasingly aggressive towards pretty much everyone. Sweets had tried once to discover the underlying issue—and largely suspected it to be related to the stresses of an impending marriage—but when he prompted Booth about it, the special agent almost pleadingly told him to "drop it before I have to shoot you." The psychologist's curiosity was piqued; after all, anger was more characteristic for Booth when things weren't going well with Dr. Brennan, yet Booth was more desperate than furious. However, he decided to wait and observe Booth's partner later, since she didn't constantly threaten to shoot him, and he wisely decided not to test Booth's trigger finger.

"Sorry, sir, but Pelant was gone by the time we reached the coordinates. There was nothing there—not even signs that a person had been hiding out there." The newest recruit to the FBI swallowed. Sweets observed him with a sideways glance. _Obviously nervous and determined to impress Agent Booth, since he probably resembles an authoritative figure such as a father who was absent in his childhood. _Lance Sweets suppressed a smile. Booth seemed to have that effect on people. Sweets himself could hardly explain with all of his shrink talk why he felt attached to the almost-dysfunctional partnership of Booth and Brennan the moment they walked into his office for the first time. _Dr. Brennan had even told me once that I'm a part of Christine's family, which logically must transcend to being a part of Booth's and her family. Ergo, I am totally a part of their family as well, even if Dr. Brennan won't admit it._

A phone rang. Each member of the conversation looked down at their hips for their phones automatically. Sweets, who recognized the ring tone—though it sounded faintly tinnier than usual—smiled apologetically and excused himself from the conversation. The psychologist flipped the device open without even checking the caller ID. If this call contained valuable information regarding any of their cases, he couldn't afford to miss it.

"Doctor Lance Sweets," he answered automatically.

"Hello, Dr. Sweets," the voice on the line purred. The psychologist stiffened and his nonchalant expression froze unnaturally. He felt his arm rising to alert Booth that a murderer was on the phone with him.

"I wouldn't alert Agent Booth if I were you, Dr. Sweets" he whispered, taking great care to repeat Sweets' name and title again. To the psychologist, it sounded like the madman was relishing each time he said the elevated title, as if he was either pleased to be talking to the shrink again or that they shared some secret joke between them. Sweets was not pleased with the former option and he certainly had no idea what hidden joke his caller had concocted between them to explain the latter.

The psychologist lowered his hand, feeling a helpless, frustrated anger burn though his veins. Booth, who had kept one eye on the paling psychologist, turned his attention completely towards his friend.

"You okay, Sweets?" The question dragged the young man from his phone call and Booth frowned at the distracted look on his face. Sweets blinked twice then nodded.

"Yeah, fine." He didn't even bother covering up the speaker on the phone.

Booth was not convinced. "Are you sure?"

The psychologist smiled painfully. "It's just an issue with another patient. It's fine, Booth," he added in a much too high voice. "Really." _For a trained professional, I really suck at lying. _

Booth nodded slowly, but thankfully returned to grilling the newest recruits on their mistake. Sweets breathed out a brief sigh of relief and turned back to his phone conversation.

"You don't lie very well, do you, Dr. Sweets?" A low chuckle sent shivers tingling down the shrink's spine.

"What do you want, Pelant?" The psychologist's voice dropped into a hissed whisper. He wasn't sure how much of Booth's attention was still divided on him.

"Did I hear what you said correctly? Do you really consider me a patient of yours, Dr. Sweets?"

Sweets gritted his teeth and turned away from Booth, who was still chattering animatedly. He didn't trust his facial expressions enough to not alert the FBI agent that something was horribly wrong. "I consider you clinically incapable of making rational decisions, though I see no possible treatment that could correct your condition. But a very dreary, windowless concrete cell or a bullet _might _be a start," he muttered darkly

Although Pelant didn't seem fazed by the psychologist's diagnosis of his mental state, he was more surprised by the bitter, icy edge in the young man's tone.

"You've resorted to death threats? I never pictured you to be so, well, Agent Booth-like. I thought we were more similar than that." Sweets squeezed his eyes shut and he could almost see Pelant's overdramatic pouting face. The smooth face before Booth's bullet had ripped it apart.

"We are nothing alike," the shrink snapped a bit too loudly. Booth glanced back over at Sweets with a quizzical tilt of the eyebrow, but the shrink waved his off with a watery smile and a mouthed "it's nothing." Sweets retreated further away from the FBI agent, feeling his pulse quicken dramatically.

"You must've had a reason to call, Pelant. What do you want?"

"I'm just surprised to see you capable of speech, Dr. Sweets. Typically, one finds it difficult to communicate with a lead bullet lodged in his skull," the genius drawled slowly. "Imagine if Agent Booth had been only a second later."

Sweets suppressed a shudder and swallowed a thick lump in his throat. _Don't think about the "what ifs." _"But Booth came in time, Anna was stopped, and I'm not dead. You failed, Pelant."

"Are you sure?"

Those three words caused the color to rush from the psychologist's face. He drew in a sharp breath that was physically painful as it streaked down his windpipe.

"What…?"

"I said 'Are you sure?'. I'm fairly certain that you heard me, Dr. Sweets." The hacktivist sounded like the cat that hadn't just caught the canary, but caught it, plucked it, and served it with an expensive wine.

"We stopped your shooter… I…no one was injured," Sweets repeated, trying to gain a foothold of control in the already spiraling situation.

"And you consider that a failure?"

"You failed to kill the target," Sweets pointed out, using the murderer's words against him. "Obviously that implies failure of some type, whether intentional or not-"

A low, ominous chuckling sounded from the other side of the phone. "Just because you are still _breathing_, Dr. Sweets, does not mean that I _failed._" With each word, the hacker's tone grew a little bit sharper. By the end, it sounded as if the madman was barely able to hold back a raging tirade. Sweets could picture the hacker smiling thinly, forced to bite a quivering lip to stop from shouting.

"If I wanted to kill you, we wouldn't be having this conversation," he continued in a steadily loudening tone. "You would be six feet under by now," the young criminal seethed with barely controlled anger. "Do you honestly expect me to launch an assassin on _any_ of you without being absolutely sure of the consequences?" The psychologist in Sweets instantly picked apart the choice of words decided to tuck away the word "any" into his shrinky storage banks. _Any indicates that he has a set group of targets, _Sweets considered with a dry twist in his gut. _Obviously the Jeffersonian is the target. Perhaps he let something slip that he meant to hide. Announcing the target presents the opportunity to save him or her before Pelant acts. After all, that is what sa—_A sick realization hit the young psychologist. If what Pelant was bragging about was true, no knowledge and no prevention was enough to save _any_ of them. Already they, Sweets especially, had fallen into Pelant's trap.

"I _knew_ the exact spot where you would be trapped in traffic and I knew the distance from Booth's location to your own. After all, I was the one who set it." Pelant's voice was flickering between cool triumph and boiling madness. Although he was more prone to be blinded by his anger, and therefore more likely to make an error, Sweets knew this was when he was at his most irrational and dangerous. "If I really wanted to 'succeed,'" the young man sneered the word, "then I wouldn't have positioned Booth in such a close proximity to you. Nor would I have allowed your computer hacker to gain access to the girl's files." There was a brief pause of silence.

"Tell me again, Dr. Sweets, if you think I _failed." _Each word that fell out of the young man's mouth dripped like a lethal poison. Both of the young geniuses were breathing heavily—one from pent up fury and the other from suppressed panic.

_Get it together, Lance. You know his kind. You wrote a paper about them. _The young man suppressed a groan. _That was probably not the best thing to say to make me feel better. _However, it was enough to calm the young psychologist down back to a rational level. _He made a mistake and he's trying to use fear in order to make up for it. He's trying to make me afraid so _I'll _mess up. _

Sweets was silent for at least a minute as he forced his heart to return to its steady _thump thump_. He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly through his nose. "Why me then?" He was almost certain that he was speaking to an empty line. "Why target _me?"_

Sweets didn't know if he was disappointed or relieved when Pelant answered almost immediately. He really hated talking to the maniac, but the life-or-death curiosity was agonizing. "Why do you think?"

"My paper," the young psychologist replied automatically. "It inspired you, and since I wrote it, I'm the only one who can predict what you'll do next."

"You think I'll really follow an article that you wrote years ago? It doesn't control me. I only used it to get your attention. Try again," Pelant's cruel smile crept through the telephone line like sour honey.

Sweets bit his lip and tried to push down deeper. "I am perhaps the easiest member of the Jeffersonian to replace. Booth can find another criminal profiler or therapist easily, though he could never find another entomologist as skilled as Hodgins or an anthropologist as brilliant as Dr. Brennan. Even Angela's technological skills are invaluable."

There was a low tutting sound as if Pelant was speaking to a slow child. "I'm disappointed that you see yourself that way. In my opinion, you are perhaps the most valuable member of your pathetic little crime fighting team. At least, in my perspective."

"How?"

"You said it yourself, Dr. Sweets. You're the only one who could predict me, since we're the same."

"_We are _not_ the same!" _A passerby agent sent him an odd look, but Sweets was too absorbed in the conversation to give much care.

"The others are brilliant, certainly. But they aren't very _imaginative, _are they? Dr. Brennan is perhaps the only person capable of matching me, but you testified yourself that she values life far too much to ever be interesting. It takes a special kind of person to write the article that you did, Dr. Sweets. It was very detailed and very, _very_ accurate. Almost as if you were writing your own autobiography."

The young psychologist did not speak for a moment. "It is my job to get into the minds of twisted people like you to figure out how to stop them."

"I don't think _that_ deep."

"Why am I the target?"

"Each member of your team serves a very importance purpose. For example, Ms. Montenegro serves as your 'everywhere' eyes and Booth is obviously the brawn of the operation," Pelant sounded almost bored with the labels. "My job would be infinitely easier with any of them gone."

"Then why me? Why not Dr. Brennan? Or Angela? Their deaths would cause much more damage—and that's all that you really want, isn't it? Hodgins and Booth are more than capable of ripping you apart with their bare hands. You won't get a very thrilling chase with my death." _Maybe he doesn't want to run the risk of being caught again._ Sweets smiled into the phone. "You're _afraid_ of them."

"_I am not afraid!_" Sweets had to hold the phone away from his ear to prevent an eardrum from bursting. There was a brief _whooshing_ sound on the other side of the line, as if Pelant was taking a breath to calm himself. When he resumed speaking, the voice was controlled and low. "As I was saying, I'm shocked that you consider yourself so worthless. As far as psychologists go, you're barely above par—just an average shrink, really." Sweets narrowed his eyes dangerously. "However, you do have a knack for getting into my head, which is not nearly as average or unimpressive." His voice took on an almost wistful tone. "You were the first one to figure out I was responsible for killing that girl those years ago." There was a light chuckle. "I still remember when you and Agent Booth came to my house, though I have to say, I wasn't at first overly impressed."

"You want to kill me because I can figure out which color of socks you want to wear today?" Sweets' patience was starting to run thin. Although he knew Pelant was a dangerous psychopath who needed to be stopped immediately, they had been on the phone for almost ten minutes. It was a miracle that Booth had not burst in on them yet.

"No, not exactly _kill _you…"

"Then why target me?"

"Don't think of it as a target—think of my past action as an invitation."

"Invitation?" Sweets wasn't sure he liked where this was going.

"Yes, an invitation to play."

"I'm not going to play your sick game, Pelant," Sweets snapped back. "Whatever you want me to do for you, I won't do it. I won't let you manipulate me like you manipulated that girl."

There was a short bark of laughter on the other side of the line. "You say that, Dr. Sweets, but for every inside tidbit you think you know about me, it's just another glimpse I have into your mind. I know you'll play the game eventually. Especially if you know the stakes."

"Leave the others alone." The young man's voice was surprisingly forceful for the slight tremor in his knees. The psychologist felt like a fish that the ocean's tides were slowly forcing closer towards a grinning shark.

"If you agree to play, _I _won't cause your friends any pain. I think you'll manage to do that quite fine on your own." Sweets bristled slightly at the hint of betrayal.

"I said I wasn't going to help you in any way. There is nothing that you can do to make me help a monster like you."

"But I haven't explained the rules of the game yet. You might want to hear them." Pelant's tone took on a rueful poutiness again. "Dr. Hodgins simply refused to play, although he would have been so much fun to bring down. Dr. Brennan started to play, and she really had me going for a while," the hacker almost sounded melancholy, "but then she called Booth and broke the first rule. I didn't realize how much outside influences could manipulate the game's outcome," Pelant now was bitter. "You could say that brilliant Dr. Brennan cheated so she could get out of the game."

"But she survived," Sweets pointed out. "Hodgins did too, so you lost twice." He was now trying the oldest psychology trick in the book—deflection to an emotion. However, he knew it would hardly cause Pelant to bat an eyelash, but it was worth a shot. Besides, with the mad genius's dark ranting, Sweets felt the overpowering urge to insert himself somewhere in the conversation. Even if it was just to make slightly asinine remarks.

"That's why everything went wrong," Pelant carried on without breaking stride. "It was because they didn't know they were playing. They got outside help because it was there. That's why I'm telling you about the game now—so you won't run to Agent Booth or Dr. Brennan or any of the others for assistance. This time we'll play with more permanent stakes. It won't be so easy to reverse the game once you start."

Sweets squeezed his eyes shut tightly and breathed slowly through his nose. He needed to calm himself down. Pelant was obviously agitating him to the point of accepting the invitation. The psychologist knew that he had to avoid agreeing to the game as long as possible. _Why does he repeatedly call it a game? It is almost as if he is completely consumed by the concept of playing with others. Perhaps it stems from the child-like urges of being the ultimate winner. Pelant is the kind of person who wants to be the winner, although it is no fun if he takes the crown without competition. The challenge is the victor's prize. _

"Now, the stakes—"

"I'm not playing."

"First of all, while we are playing, no harm will come to your Jeffersonian friends and your FBI agent. The moment you agree to play, I will remove all of the lovely little presents I have lined up for them immediately. It seems like the fair thing to do."

Sweets was quiet for a moment. "Is that all you want? For me to say 'yes'? And then you'll leave them alone?"

"No, of course not," Pelant laughed again. "That would hardly be worth the effort. Also on the table are our lives." The psychologist tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. "Winner takes all. If I win, I get _your_ life and I get to do whatever I want to the little Squint Squad."

"And if I win?"

"I won't ever be a problem again." Sweets was sure the hacker was grinning into the telephone.

"What's your game then?"

"Ah, so the prize has indeed interested the shrink." The young psychologist remained rigid, holding the phone tightly in his barely shaking hand. He had no idea as to why his hand was shaking—perhaps from fear or more likely a twisted sense of anticipation.

"What is your game?" Sweets repeated with gritted teeth.

"First rule," Pelant started, "this is a two-person game. If _anyone_ finds out about it, then you automatically forfeit." Sweets nodded on the other side. "You can't get help from anybody."

"Seems fair," he murmured, trying to hide the faint squeak in his voice. Although he was a trained professional, Sweets wasn't very good at lying to Booth or any of his other friends. At this point, he was more concerned about his inability to play his friends over beating Pelant.

"The second rule is the game isn't over until one of us is dead."

"Or incarcerated," Sweets countered sharply. He may have hated Pelant's guts, but he wouldn't allow himself to ever sink to his level by murder, disregarding the strong desire he had to lodge a bullet deep into Pelant's big brain.

"We'll see," Pelant answered. "It depends on how far the game goes."

"Are there any more rules?" Sweets asked slowly, uncertain if he wanted to hear another rule.

"I promised you, Dr. Sweets. The game is simple. Those are the only two rules."

Sweets closed his eyes and nodded. "Okay," he paused, taking a deep, long breath. "I'll play your game, Pelant. Just leave the others alone."

"You have my word."

The psychologist suppressed a nervous groan. He doubted the psychopath had the capacity to be even remotely honest. He was about to reply, but the hacktivist beat him to it.

"I look forward to seeing you on the playing field, Doctor Sweets," the young murder smirked and suddenly the line went dead with a click.

The cellphone was still glued to Sweets' ear seconds after Pelant had terminated the conversation. With jittery hands, the psychologist slowly lowered the cellphone from his face and slammed it shut with a loud _snap _that made him wince. _What have I gotten myself into? _He stared blankly at the device in his hand as if it would answer him. Naturally there was no answer.

"Sweets?"

Booth's loud voice sounded right in the young man's ear, causing him to flinch violently.

"Hey, are you alright? You were on the phone for almost twenty minutes. Is everything okay?"

Sweets nodded weakly, not trusting himself to speak.

"Yeah, it's good. Nothing's wrong."

"Good," Booth studied the young agent's face carefully for a moment before deeming it all right to turn away. "If you're up to it, we can start questioning the girl who Pelant manipulated. Maybe she can give us some info on where Pelant is now."

Sweets smiled bleakly. "Sure. Sounds like a plan."

* * *

**Thank you for reading!  
**Sorry if the beginning is a little bit dry. I swear though, it'll pick up. Just stick with me xD  
(As a side note about why I thought Pelant targeted Sweets in the finale was because he thought Sweets was capable of becoming and killing him. Those papers that our Baby Duck wrote? Pretty dark and nasty things. I think Pelant realized the danger in letting Sweets stick around-he was potentially dangerous. But again, just my headcanon)


	2. Chapter 2

**Timeframe/Info About This Fic: **Post Season 8  
**Disclaimer:** Bones and its characters belong to their rightful owners.  
**Authors Note: **Ack! It's been a long time, guys. Sorry about that. I do have an excuse though-I was in another country for much of the summer. And, uh, _I'vefallenintoanotherfandomandIcan'tgetouthelp  
_Yeah... Anyway, this chapter is dedicated to **bloodxscribbles** who sought me out on Tumblr to request I update this soon. Seriously, guys. That's the way to make my day and get my attention :D  
Hopefully you'll enjoy this. I'm not sure if I like how it came out, but, eh, we'll see.

* * *

Just as Sweets suspected, the used girl had no idea where Pelant was, and even if she had the vaguest idea, it was incredibly doubtful she would have announced the location in front of her failed target and the man who had shot her, preventing the death of said target. She may have given off subtle, unconscious clues during the rather one-sided interview conducted primarily by Booth, but Sweets was too preoccupied with his own personal tormentors to pay close attention. He didn't need to know where Pelant was. He needed to figure out how to outwit a master manipulator. Without alerting his closest friends.

If Sweets was considerably under perceptive during the interrogation, his partner was quite the opposite. Not only was the older man particularly attentive to the rather sullen suspect (in fact, the special agent noticed several contrasting facial tics and word jumbles that, in different circumstances, would have make the younger psychologist rather proud), but he was also suspicious of the young doctor's lack of concentration throughout the entire interview. He immediately brought it up the moment the two left the interrogation chamber.

"Sweets, what's wrong with you?" The younger man started at the older agent's sudden question. "I mean, I think your shrink-y mojo was a bit, well, broken back there." Sweets blinked once, then twice, but he still didn't answer. He was regarding the federal agent with a rather unfortunate mix of deer-in-the-headlight and what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about. "You okay?" Booth took a hesitant step towards the younger agent.

Sweets stepped back quickly and nearly bumped into the wall behind him. "Yeah, fine. Fine," he chuckled nervously. "I was just, ah, thinking about what she said about Pelant's, uh, pl—"

Booth raised a slow eyebrow and frowned at his colleague. "You were thinking so hard I had to practically push you out of the room. Seriously—what's on your mind. It has to be something big."

"There were some obvious psychological signs in her face that indicated that she wasn't being completely truthful with us," Sweets murmured in a soft voice. He was trying to regain control of the situation between himself and Booth. It hadn't even been an hour since Pelant's issued challenge and his acceptance and Sweets was already starting to screw things up. _Get a grip, Lance. _For some reason, he felt like he was able to grapple back some fragment of normality when he resorted to analyzing their latest detainee like a suspect instead of a pawn of Pelant's deadly game. If he scrutinized the girl's actions objectively, it was much easier to force the color from his voice.

"Yeah, I got _that_." Booth rolled his eyes. "I thought it was kind of obvious since she kept changing the story."

Sweets glanced down at his tie, picked off invisible lint and flicked it away with a forced expression of neutrality. The older FBI agent regarded him with a faded frown.

"Sweets," the former soldier started in a soft voice, "what's wrong? _Something's_ bothering you. I haven't seen you this un-Sweets-like since the Gravedigger murder…" He hesitated for a moment before an idea crossed the agent's mind. "Are you still worried about Pelant? He _can't_ hurt you, if that's what you're afraid of." Booth gestured towards the locked door where their prisoner was currently being held. "And she's not a threat anymore. We got her—and she didn't get you."

The young doctor looked back up at the federal agent and forced a shaky smile despite the churn in his gut. _If you only knew, Booth…_ "Don't worry about me, Agent Booth. I believe I am only experiencing a faintly more concentrated reaction similar to the one I felt after Taffet's assassination. It's nothing I can't handle." His smile widened slightly. He was touched by the agent's uncharacteristic concern. "Just your textbook emotions: relief, fear, adrenaline, satisfaction, uh, guilt—"

"Guilt?"

"I still feel responsible for Pelant using my work," the psychologist admitted weakly and turned his face away from the older agent. He neglected to mention that the latter listed emotions weren't from the shooting, but from his recent call with Pelant. Somewhere deep in his gut, the young man knew that when he agreed to the deadly contest with a mad killer, people he cared about were unavoidably going to be hurt. _Fear. Adrenaline. Guilt. _

"Sweets, listen to me—this isn't your fault. Did you hear what I said?"

The young psychologist turned away completely and started walking towards the elevator. "I have a few things I got to finish, so if you don't need me…" he stated automatically, hitting the down button on the control panel. The doors slid open silently and a few agents filtered in and out with polite murmurs, but the young man hesitated for a moment. He turned back to face Booth and smiled weakly before boarding the lift.

"Thanks, Booth. For what you said. I mean it…"

The doors slowly slid shut and hid the young profiler from sight, leaving behind a bemused federal agent who was internally cursing his inability to coax the shrink into confiding in him.

_Well, whatever it is, he can fix himself. He's a smart kid. _

Booth didn't openly admit it, but he was weighed down too heavily by his own issues to want to pursue the matter much further.

* * *

The call came about an hour after Sweets had left the Hoover building in such a rush. A contained explosion at a local gas station had left at least three dead and the obvious condition of the remains needed an expert to determine whether foul play was involved. Within seconds after dropping the cell from his ear, Bones had called and tersely informed him that she would not need a ride from the Jeffersonian, as she would be riding with Doctors Saroyan and Hodgins for the foreseeable future. Booth snapped his phone shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, releasing a loud sigh.

_Damn you, Pelant. This is _your _fault. _Still unable to risk the lives of innocents for his own happiness, Booth had yet to explain to his former-fiancée as to why he had suddenly broken off the engagement. Feeling a sense of broiling rage directed towards the smug computer hacker, Booth vowed softly under his breath that he would get revenge on the man sooner or later. For everything that monster had done to him. Perhaps the only friend the mad man had yet to harm was Cam, but the agent knew it was only a matter of time before they all were a part of his final coup de grâce.

Not looking forward to spending time alone at a crime scene with three particular people—Cam (who would no doubt ask questions), bug boy (who would be bound through marital ties and Angela's friendship with Brennan to hate him), and Bones (self-explanatory)—Booth nearly dialed Sweets number to check up on the shrink and to invite him to the "party" to provide a psychological opinion. However, after the third ring directed him to the shrink's way-too-perky voice mail response, Booth hung up before leaving a message.

_What was I thinking? He isn't even qualified to be a first responder. We don't even know if this was a crime, so we don't need a profile. Besides, he probably just needs to blow off some steam from this past case alone. _Still, Sweets refusal to answer made the agent a bit wary and he promised himself he would at least check up on the kid before heading home for the night.

Realizing he had wasted enough time calling no one in particular, Booth made his way slowly to his Bureau-issued SUV and rode in silence to the site of the explosion.

* * *

Sweets had almost walked past his own car.

In his defense, the car was a rental that the Bureau had provided after his current vehicle was sprayed by assassin bullets, but it was still a bit embarrassing for the young man.

_All right… I just need to get out of here as soon as possible. If I have no interaction with Booth and the others, then I can't tell them about Pelant? Right…?_ The young man swallowed nervously and fumbled with his keys for a moment. _Which one was for the car? They told me it wasn't the black one. I think. _As the metallic keys jangled in his slightly trembling fingers from adrenaline, the young man kept darting worried glances over his shoulder. He wasn't looking out for Pelant or another sent assassin.

He was looking out for Booth.

For some odd reason, the psychopath's marred face wasn't on the top of his "please, please, _please_, do _not_ show up in front of my car right now" list. All of the young man's closest friends had instead replaced the wicked monster's ugly mug on the list. Pelant was no doubt over the moon with this sudden flip in the shrink's social mindset. _It's part of his twisted game. He wants to throw me in an unfamiliar place before he kills me…or worse. _

Sweets heard a slight metallic grinding at his waist and glanced down quickly. He was trying to unlock his car door with his apartment keys. Every unnatural, however innocent, sound set him on edge.

_Wow... This really is sad. _Sweets forced out a nervous chuckle. _Why am I so rattled all of a sudden? It's not like I'm not used to going after insane serial killers. _Sweets mashed his lips together as he finally found the right key—_it _was _the black key—_unlocked his door, threw himself into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut quickly. _That's it though—I've never actually personally gone after a serial killer. And I've never been _invited_ by one before. _The young psychologist rolled his eyes to the unfamiliar underside of the car's roof and sighed. _What I'd give to be the nameless shadow behind the observation glass again…_ Almost wistfully, the young man thought about his early days working at the Bureau when Booth had forbade him to join the interview. _Now they—Pelant—know who I am._

Sweets placed both sweaty palms on the steering wheel and allowed his fingers to curl in tightly around the faded plastic. A bit too tight, as if they were around a certain someone's neck.

"All right. So… Where do I go to escape someone who has eyes everywhere?" The rhetorical question caused a nervous hiccup to bubble from the shrink's throat.

_I can't just disappear. Booth or the others will get suspicious and start looking for me. If they get too close or if they find me, Pelant'll kill them. I can't put them in danger, but I can't tell them. _

Feeling an uncharacteristic surge of anger, Sweets dug his teeth-ravaged fingernails into the soft plastic of the steering wheel and growled under his breath.

_He's laughing at me. _Pelant's sick humor was slowly becoming apparent as Sweets finally realized the real damage this was causing. _He's turning everything I've ever wanted against me. I wanted to be in the interrogation booth and be a hero like Agent Booth and now I've got it. I'm not faceless anymore—at least not to Pelant. _Sweets briefly revisited the question of where to go. _Before I came to the Bureau, I would have given _anything_ to have a surrogate family to take me in like Mom and Dad did. Now I can't just disappear for a few weeks without having them freak out. _Sweets shut his eyes and groaned. Just a few short years ago, Sweets knew nobody and was nobody. His disappearance wouldn't have been noticed until a curious someone from work knocked on his door or a postal worker noticed a pile up in his mail after a week. If he tried to pull the same stunt of disappearing without a trace that day, he was safe in assuming his absence would have been noticed within twelve hours.

An idea struck the young man. _I can just tell them I'm going on a short leave to clear my head. I can come up with the technical psych-explanation later, but if I drive somewhere far, call the others to let them know, and leave my phone there, then if they check, Angela will find me, I don't know, in New Hampshire. Then they won't be able to contact me and I'll come back for Pelant. _Quite proud of his plan, Sweets turned on the ignition and groaned again.

Apparently the Bureau would lend you a car if yours got totaled on the job, but that didn't mean they would be gracious with the gasoline. Sweets doubted he would have enough fuel to roll out of the parking lot, much less make it to New Hampshire.

_Might as well start building up a paper trail…_ He rolled his eyes again and carefully backed out of the parking lot, grateful not see a certain federal agent at the door waving him down. _I can hit a gas station on my way out of DC._

* * *

Whoever had called in the explosion had grossly understated the magnitude of the blast. It was certainly not _contained _and if Booth hadn't been previously informed, he would have never guessed the flattened lot had ever been a gas station. Perhaps the only remnant of the explosion was a severely distorted steel threshold and a fire-seared section of the back concrete wall. A few mangled pieces of metal were strewn about the site and a team of cautious firefighters were attempting to put out a smoking sedan.

Booth whistled softly to himself and stepped out of his vehicle. He saw the curly back of Hodgins' head—_what's he doing here? There aren't any bugs here—_but he carefully maneuvered away from the crouching entomologist, hoping not to be seen.

"Hey! Agent Booth!"

_Perfect…_

Booth swung around and forced a smile as the bug boy all but bounced into his direct line of sight. "Hodgins. Just the guys I wanted to see. Do you have anything related to the _case?"_ The subtle hint was hopefully enough to dissuade the ginger from asking about the unlikely couple's devastating breakup.

"Uh, right, well, no bugs."

"Really?" Booth slightly cocked an eyebrow. In his peripheral vision, he was watching Cam converse with a few paramedics over one crispy pile of ash, but he had yet to spy his former fiancée. "That's really…not that weird."

Hodgins' lips pursed. "No, but I was a part of the team that searched for the cause."

Booth perked up. "And?"

The ginger entomologist shrugged. "Nothing yet, but we just got here. Uh," he sent a nervous glance at someone behind him. "Doctor Brennan is behind you if you need to talk to her, but, um," the ginger's eyes wandered to the side, "Cam could use some help over there. I can go help Doctor B if you want to help Doctor Saroyan."

For the first time since waking up that morning, Booth felt a small wave of relief. He was expecting a frosty conversation or at least an ill-timed question by the others, but it seemed like he was able to dodge that particular bullet for a moment longer. "Thanks, Hodgins," he gave the entomologist a weak smile. "Keep me updated on the cause of this mess, okay?"

"Yeah," the other man nodded and was instantly swept away by another agent who seemed to have found something significant by the remains of one of the warped cars.

Booth shook his head with a low chuckle. He followed the ginger's zigzag path with his own eyes and froze. Something about one of the cars made the federal agent stop in his tracks. He slowly moved towards the incinerated vehicle. There was something very familiar with it, as if he had seen it before, but he couldn't place when and where.

_Oh God…_

_ That's _where he had seen it before.

* * *

Cam rubbed her tired eyes and stood up from the most recent pile of charred remains. There was no flesh. The past three bodies had displayed _no _sign whatsoever of any useable flesh. Although she considered herself to have a rather strong stomach, the putrid smell of diesel and overcooked flesh was starting to make her a bit nauseas. Cam brushed off the ash from her protocol over suit and glanced around the scene. It was impossible to say whether or not the explosion was intentional, but she had yet to see anything in her investigation that would prove foul play or a cover up. No bullets. No detonator packs. No nothing except for a few charred skulls.

The pathologist glanced towards where Booth and Hodgins were discussing something. A sad frown formed on the woman's lips. She hadn't officially seen Booth after the proposal, but according to Hodgins, who heard it from Angela who heard it from Brennan, the federal agent had been overjoyed. Looking at the man now, it was hard to believe that was true. A permanent frown was stretched across the federal agent's forehead and Cam noticed that he was obviously trying to hard not to look at Dr. Brennan and failing. The broken engagement had come as a shock to all of those at the Jeffersonian, but even after a week, the strained relationship still looked damaged.

Something caught the pathologist's eye. She tore her gaze from the special agent and focused on a suspicious character halfway across the wreckage. It wasn't the outfit that the man was wearing that caused her to pause. After all, he was wearing the same fire resistant suit that all of the emergency responders were cloaked in. However, what he was doing wasn't so ordinary. The man had loaded a large black body bag onto a stretcher and was in the process of navigating the package away from the crime scene. A body that Cam had yet to see.

"Excuse me," Cam called, flagging down the man with a wave of her hand. The man paused and turned towards her expectantly. His face was concealed by the darkly tinted, reflective mask. Cam was unsettled by her inability to see the man's face.

"Yes, Doctor Saroyan?" The voice was muffled, yet the smug tone seemed vaguely familiar to the pathologist. The fact that the medic seemed to know her personally threw the woman off balance for a moment. "Can I help you?"

"I don't remember seeing that victim. I'm sorry, but the remains are not allowed to leave the si—"

"I assure you that everything is fine, Doctor Saroyan," the man murmured in a stifled purr. Cam blinked slowly at the man. If she peered hard enough into the figure's reflective face mask, she was sure she could see a crinkled dark eye staring back at her. Everything about this responder was giving the pathologist a bad vibe, yet she couldn't exactly put her finger on why. "Doctor Brennan already gave me permission to remove this particular set of remains and transport them to the Jeffersonian."

"I—the remains shouldn't be sent to the Jeffersonian unless there was proof that foul play was invo—"

The man dipped his head slightly. "I'm only following orders, Doctor Saroyan," he repeated her name for the third time. Despite the heat of the afternoon and the still blazing vehicles, Cam felt an icy shudder run up her spine.

"I wasn't notified of another body then," Cam said slowly, backing away from the medic as he began pushing the body bag towards a nearby transportation van. "That must mean the fatality count is up to four."

"Certainly does. Such a tragedy…" The man turned away from the pathologist and resumed his current mission. "Best of luck solving this, Doctor Saroyan."

Feeling thoroughly creeped out and still incredibly suspicious of the interloper, Cam decided to double check with Brennan to make sure that he had been, in fact, following her orders.

"Doctor Brennan," Cam called, making her way quickly to the kneeling forensic anthropologist.

The other woman glanced up. "Yes, Doctor Saroyan?" Cam cringed internally at the repeated use of her professional name. "Can I help you?"

"I was just wondering—did you give permission to one of the men here to remove a set of remains in order to send them back to the Jeffersonian?"

A confused frown graced the pale woman's lips. "No, why?"

Cam opened her mouth to respond when a sudden bubble of excitement and shouting diverted the doctors' attention. A wide-eyed medic appeared at their side. His thin face was not concealed by any form of mask.

"Another body's been found! That makes four!"

The pathologist swung around to where she had last seen the suspicious man, but no one was there. Uttering a mild curse under her breath, she informed Brennan on the way to where their guide was leading them.

Brennan frowned after hearing what had happened between Cam and the man. "Could you give a physical description of him?"

The other woman shook her head once, then twice. "No…he was wearing all this gear that covered his face." She glanced around at the various workers attempting to put out the last of the flames and felt her gut clench again. Not even the firefighters who were in the direct line of fire had as much masking gear as the interloper had been wearing. Someone had evidently wanted to remain unidentified. "I'm calling Booth over here." The anthropologist looked almost as if she wanted to stop Cam, but hesitated and nodded.

"It is imperative that we stop him before he tampers with evidence. This may have been intentional." Cam nodded, grateful that the ever-rational Doctor Brennan was putting her work before her personal life. Cam didn't feel like counseling or playing the aggressive boss card at the current moment.

"Seeley!" Cam shouted, waving her hand in the air to signal to the federal agent that his assistance was requested. Instead of hesitating as Cam thought he would, the man came over immediately with wide eyes.

"You found another one?" he asked nervously.

"Yes, but that isn't wh—"

"Could you get a rough idea of who the other victims were?"

Cam wasn't sure why the federal agent looked so desperate, but she decided to humor him for a brief moment. "Uh, two females and one male. We think one of the women was about forty, but the other one was har—"

"What about the male?" the federal agent demanded.

"Seeley? Is everything okay?" Cam tilted her head and tried to meet the agent's eyes.

"The male?" Booth prompted.

"Uh, we think he was in his forties as well." This seemed to calm the agent down significantly. He nodded once and let a relieved smile flicker across his lips.

"I just thought I recognized one of the cars here. That's all. No big deal."

"Male," Brennan said slowly, intentionally oblivious to the conversation revolving around her.

"What?" Booth glanced down at the charred bones at his feet. The skeleton looked as if it had been in fetal position when the explosion happened. Both hands and feet were grouped together, although there was no sign of forced bondage or any remnants of a rope or chain.

"The fourth victim. He was a male, judging by the size of the pelvis." She reached for the burnt mandible and gently pulled it open. "It's hard to tell with the physical damage," the anthropologist tilted her head slightly to the left, "but I believe the victim was between twenty to thirty. Although there is evidence of the eruption of his wisdom teeth, one is still partially submerged, indicating he's probably around twenty-five to twenty-nine." Brennan surveyed the entire skeleton. "Approximately 1.8 meters…or about six foot." Out of habit, she gave the US Standard unit of height for her partner.

Booth's eyes glazed over the blacked remains and felt a sick twist in his gut. His brown gaze landed on the mangled residue of a melted watch around one of the brittle wrists. Try as he might, he was unable to tear his leaden stare from the destroyed accessory.

_So what? A lot of men wear watches. Even nice, silvery ones. Which look like they were really old. _

"Seeley?" Cam pressed again, watching the color drain from her friend's face. "What's wrong?" Even Brennan's icy mask cracked slightly and she watched her partner's actions with concern.

"It's just that I recognize one of the cars here and the watch and I—I'm calling Sweets right _now._" Booth turned away and instantly pulled out his phone. He began dialing with frantic speed.

"Sweets?"

"What does Dr. Sweets have to do with this?" Brennan swapped a confused look with Cam. Suddenly the pathologist's eyes widened and her dark gaze landed heavily on the pile of bones at their feet. Two and two suddenly connected.

_Oh God… Booth _can't_ be serious_…

The federal agent jammed the phone to his ear and waited with darting eyes to hear the shrink's chipper voice. _Come on…come on…_ The others watched the man with varying expressions of shock, worry, and fear. Only a few days had passed from when Sweets had been pursued by Pelant's assassin, and already their little duck was in danger again.

_"This is Dr. Lance Sweets of the FBI. If you are a patient and need imme—"_

Booth dropped the phone and shook his head weakly. "It went to his answering machine."

"That's good though…right?" Cam tried to smile, but her eyes were a bit too bright to pull off the relieved look. "That means his phone is still working. If it was destroyed, you wouldn't have gotten that recording." She glanced from Brennan to Booth, neither of which looked particularly hopeful. _Where's Angela when you need her. She'd know what it would mean. _

"Cam! Booth! Dr. B!" Hodgins' shout jostled the three from their dark imaginings. "I think I found something!"

They quickly made their way to where the entomologist was standing in the parking lot. Booth saw the thing behind him and groaned loudly, wiping his face with his hands.

"A phone just went off in here. Honestly I don't know how it survived the blast, but maybe it means something." Hodgins leaned into the passenger side window and reached for the glove compartment handle. "We should probably find out who it bel—hey, are you alright, Cam?" His gloved hand froze by the melted handle and he pulled himself out of the car. He took a hesitant step towards the huddled group.

The doctor shook her head slowly, but she didn't verbalize what was bothering all of them.

Hodgins glanced from Cam to Brennan to Booth. The hairs on his neck were starting to prickle uncomfortably. "Uh, what's going on?"

Booth turned away from the group and faced the mangled remains of the Bureau—issued vehicle. His right hand crumpled into a hard ball and before he knew what he was doing, he plunged his fist deep into the charred and flaked metal.

_"Dammit!"_

He was nearly certain that he had injured his knuckles somehow, but he didn't care.

_I wasn't able to save him this time. _Booth squeezed his eyes shut and leaned his forehead against the sharp and scratchy hood of the car. His chest rose and fell rapidly with various emotions ranging from fury to sorrow.

"What's going on!?" Hodgins repeated again, his voice lilting slightly.

Even Brennan's eyes were bright. "The fourth set of remains belonged to a young man in his mid to late twenties." Hodgins' brow knitted in confusion. He was quickly running through a list of people he knew. "The victim was wearing a watch when the explosion occurred. Behind you is Dr. Sweets' car."

Hodgins took a step away from the vehicle. His disbelieving crystalline eyes grated across the charred surface and widened. The entomologist's lips parted slowly.

"No… You don't mean that Swe—"

"Nothing has been confirmed at the moment," Brennan murmured. The intended words of hope sounded harsh and hollow against her rational ears. So far everything they had found seemed to be confirming what they didn't want to hear.

Booth suddenly spun around, eyes blazing with an indiscernible emotion. "Figure out what caused this. _Now," _he ordered, jabbing the ginger sharply in the chest. The federal agent stalked away, no doubt to file a missing persons report.

Hodgins nodded slowly, not trusting himself to speak.

_What am I going to tell Angie…? _

* * *

A bit of a long chapter, but I felt like I couldn't cut it off properly. Sorry for any factual errors or OOCnes o.O  
**Thanks to all of you who read, favorited, reviewed, and followed! You guys rock!**


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